Adventures?
by kills.softly
Summary: Young Larten Crepsley is definitely sick of travelling and of Vancha March. Maybe he's just not cut out for these kinds of adventures.


Larten Crepsley was severely regretting his decision to go travelling.

He liked moving around, but what he didn't like was the lack of security. It was all very nice seeing new cities and new sights, but he just couldn't enjoy it if he was too busy worrying where he was going to stay and how he was going to get out of the sun when it rose.

Vancha March had _none_ of these worries, and had heartily laughed when his friend had voiced his concerns. It was like Vancha had either been born completely stupid or without a drop of fear in his blood: he seemed utterly incapable of seeing any further than the end of his own nose, but it was sometimes difficult to know whether this lack of foresight was purposeful.

"Larten," he'd barked, even as the younger man scuttled around trying to find somewhere sheltered as the sun began to rise over the hills in the distance. "Mate, we're _travelling_. You don't know where you're going. That's the whole bloody _point_."

Larten said nothing, eventually finding his way into some sort of tavern that hadn't closed it's doors long ago, or had for some reason already opened them.

"Some '_adventurer_' you are," Vancha March had grumbled, following him miserably. "You've been no fun since we left the mountain."

The truth was, Larten just didn't much like being away from everything he'd gotten used to. He missed being able to have wine and ale and blood whenever he liked, and he missed being around all the people he knew, or at least had some blood connection with. Larten was still only fairly young—he no longer considered himself some fledgling half-vampire, but he wasn't yet a General, and he had yet to develop the knowledge and stern demeanor for which he would later be known. He had yet to become the solitary creature who would knowingly distance himself from his clan, and what he missed most now was the comfort of safety in numbers.

Of course it was useless to tell the reckless, green-haired man about any of those feelings. Having any _feelings_ was a weakness in the first place, and reckless Vancha March was incredibly unlikely to understand what pleasure there was in being tied down to anywhere or anyone. And so Larten just shook his head and closed the heavy wooden doors behind them.

"You're so scared of everything," Vancha muttered unhappily, and observed his new surroundings. He carried very few belongings—he had a bag with a few more "human style" pieces of clothing inside, and a few choice weapons (though he'd left a sword halfway along their journey, claiming he didn't think he'd ever need it again), but other than that he travelled incredibly light. Larten did not follow that example—he wasn't known for dressing in any animal hides, and he carried far more clothing—different capes and shirts—than his older friend. And Larten, of course, was far, far too precautious to travel without a few bottles of blood on him (in case of emergencies). "You haven't _lived_ until you've been out in the Sun. It doesn't hurt as badly as you think, and it's a great feeling if you can do longer than an hour."

Vancha March was bloody _insane_, nevermind reckless or adventurous. Larten went back to his earlier thought: it still hadn't been proven that the green-haired man wasn't just a half-wit.

Vancha made an impatient noise, frustrated by the way his travelling companion refused to answer any of his questions or comment on any of his ideas. There was nothing he hated more than being ignored. Why _else_ was his hair green? "What is this place, anyway?" he continued, regardless of the fact that he'd figured out by now that Larten was not prepared to give him any answers. "Are you sure there isn't anybody living here, Creepy?"

Larten smiled at the nickname. He really hadn't done anything to deserve a surname that could be so easily manipulated. He shrugged, already rolling out his cloak and a blanket to sleep on. "If they find us, we will have to make a break for it," he said. "But it is their own fault for leaving the door open."

Vancha nodded his agreement, and petulantly sunk to his knees, halfway between reaching over the counter for the bottle of rum he could see on a creaky shelf and joining his friend in sleep. He grumbled something about having to babysit and then grasped the bottle he wanted and flopped onto the floor.

But just as Larten had _finally_ decided he was ready to get some well needed sleep, there was a light _creak_ from behind a doorway, and of course he had no choice but to creak his tired eyes open and check what it had been from. Sometimes a vampire's powerful hearing was an irritating tool, but he supposed if it was a group of murderous Vampaneze then he was likely going to be grateful for it.

Vancha had looked ready to ignore it, but then the little creak became too frequent to be passed off as a result of the wind or just old floorboards. Vancha was the first to silently climb to his feet, suddenly stealthy, and reach a hand out for the small bag he carried.

"It is only humans," the red-haired man said, much more relaxed about the situation. They were hardly likely to find a pack of angry Vampaneze travelling together and staying in what was practically a _barn_. "You are not going to need a knife, March. It's only going to be an old man with a frying pan."

Vancha cut him off there with a swift hand movement. He had gone from jokingly swigging his rum to his muscles being completely tensed and ready to pounce on whatever came through the door.

"It doesn't smell like humans," he whispered, eyes unmoving from where they watched the door for any movement, and now that the younger vampire had been prompted to notice it he could smell faintly the scent of something that was much too strong to be human. His heart immediately started to race with the thrill of being chased by something, and the thrill of hunting something, and he attempted to imitate Vancha's stealth.

But then something in the dark was crying out and stumbling, and Vancha—his impulsive side unable to wait for whatever it was to find _him_—leapt to his feet and swung open the door that hid whatever was waiting for them. Larten jumped less gracefully up behind him to support him if there was anything particularly horrific behind the door.

What they saw surprised them. A Vampaneze crumpled to the floor at the bottom of a long stairwell near their feet, but then didn't rise to their feet and fight as they might have expected. After a moment's silence Vancha reached out to tilt up his purple chin, and his face was bloody and his eyes were open but empty. "So," Vancha said, nonchalant even in the face of danger, tapping the knife against the doorframe. "The question is, what the bloody hell killed it?"

Before Larten could attempt to answer him, or before he could turn to look around, he felt something grasp his throat and something sink with an agonizing shock of pain into the area just above his heart, and then—

-

-

--"It's just as well you weren't on your own, isn't it?" a voice asked, but Larten in his state wasn't able to register who it was or what they were talking about. "You do sort of owe us one, Vancha."

"Ah, shut up, Gavner," But Larten could register the voice of the man he'd been travelling with for the last few weeks since leaving vampire mountain. He creaked open his eyes to join the conversation, not aware yet of why he seemed to be asleep when everyone else was conversing happily. He took a breath before he spoke, and the jolt of sharp pain that shot into his chest shocked him.

He was still bleary-eyed, but it seemed everyone else had heard his pained grunt from the other side of the room. Eventually as he tried to regulate his painful breaths, a few figures came into view. As he forced his eyes to concentrate on them, he could see that they were all figures he recognized. Vanez Blane was looming over him, as intimidating as usual, and Gavner and Vancha stood at the side, both equally broad shoulders and with equally broad smiles, though Vancha's arm was in a sling and Gavner did seem reliant on his makeshift cane, and Arra Sails was under Vanez's arm as usual, a forced and fake Daddy's little angel.

"Feeling better?" Vancha asked, still grinning at the face he was undoubtedly pulling—Larten had yet to gain any sort of control over his sleepy and painful muscles. When the younger of the two failed to answer, he just punched him (a little more gently than usual) in the shoulder opposite to his injury, and then turned away with Gavner to snigger.

Arra looked like she might have been about to laugh at him or make a cruel joke, but in the end she merely cleared her throat, and then decided to smooth the edges of the blankets over him. Vanez didn't look as caring or as uncaring as any of the other vampires, he just smiled down at the young man he'd spent a lot of his time teaching how to fight properly and gave him a manly pat on his good shoulder.

However, before Larten could ask any more about his injuries—breathing was still difficult and painful, and he knew he was very possibly lucky to be alive—Vancha turned back towards him. Of course the green-haired vampire couldn't be sympathetic: he hadn't a sympathetic bone in his slightly sunburnt body, and he'd been far too busy looking Arra up and down to focus on schooling his expression into one that might have comforted his friend.

"You concentrate on getting better," he said. "And quick. We're supposed to be getting to Amsterdam on Thursday."

But Larten turned his green eyes up towards Vancha, and even the tough vampire couldn't fail to spot the desperation in his eyes.

"Bloody hell," Vancha grumbled. "You want to _stay_, don't you?"

The question needed no answer. Surrounded by his companions again, Larten felt more at ease than he had done since leaving. It was possible that he just wasn't cut out for adventure. Equally, he noted, watching Arra's hands fold the blanket up over his chest, perhaps he'd just chosen the wrong travelling companion.

FIN.


End file.
